Permanence
by terrified
Summary: A one-shot. Sherlock experiments with a temporary high only to end up remembering the things that have stayed with him and that have always mattered. Rated T for mature themes and strong language.


_**A/N:** Coldplay's 'Ink' + my need to write spawned this weird, dramatic piece. I hope, at the very least, that you can make sense of it. x  
 **Rated T for mature themes and strong language.**_

* * *

 **Permanence**

Sherlock sat by the edge of the impossibly large hotel bed and waited for her to get ready. She was a beauty, even Sherlock could not deny it. He had picked her himself and now waited for her to emerge from the bathroom. His jacket was already strewn somewhere on the floor and his shirt already partially unbuttoned. He smirked as he thought about what he had done - and what else he was about to do - and lit a cigarette.

There was always a first time for everything, and tonight felt like a reckless enough evening to attempt a new first. Sherlock wondered what had possessed him to look up this side of his network of contacts. When he remembered why, he grimaced, almost accidentally biting his cigarette in half. He had seen Molly, walking out of Bart's. He had wanted to approach her, just to hear her voice again, or to get a glimpse of those eyes once more, but really, he just wanted to look at her hands. To see for herself if she was still engaged, or worse, with a second band of silver or gold, and happily married. Somehow, he had lacked the courage. So he watched her walk on, increasingly angry at himself as she went further away.

What was it about the human _touch_? Even in his head, the words came out cynically. What was it about having someone to hold? What was so great about one's mouth moving against another's? Everyone's touched everyone at some point - so why isolate one single person to dance with? To focus solely on one's skin meeting that of another's. What _was_ it about the human touch?

This seemed the perfect time to find out, and right on cue, the woman he had hired for the night emerged. Her body was accented by perfectly sculpted portions of lace and chiffon. Sherlock admired her physique and the way her lips were thick and always slightly parted. She got started, continuing where they had left off and kissed his neck, unbuttoning the rest of his shirt. He exhaled when her hands roamed, shutting his eyes as he his head fell back from the stirring in his blood.

The beginnings of a euphoria he had only heard of intrigued him; the way the heat coursed through his veins and how his body wildly cried out for more of her. Where her hands and her mouth went, his mind followed helplessly. His brain short-circuited, mercilessly shooting electric pulses all over him. Sometimes he would grit his teeth only to find himself gasping for air; at times he cursed out loud or whispered it as he bit her ear. Never in his life had he wanted something more, as well as for it to stop all at once. How could it feel like too much, and not enough at the same time?

When the room slowly swam into view, the woman propped herself up on her elbows and took a good look at Sherlock. When he caught her staring at him, he frowned and sat up.

"What?" he asked.  
"I know why you didn't want to fuck," she said, smiling.  
"I don't believe that's _quite_ how I said it," he said, getting out of bed.  
"It's that tattoo, isn't it?" she said, getting up and reaching for a robe.  
"I don't know what you mean," he muttered, sliding his trousers on as his eyes scanned the room for his shirt.

The woman chuckled and secured the robe around her.

"Because it isn't just a tattoo," she remarked, "It's a tattoo above your heart."  
"I don't have a heart," he said blankly.  
"Really? You don't?" she scoffed as she reached for her box of cigarettes.  
"I don't believe I paid you for a chat as well," he said, turning to glare at her.  
"I bet," she said, ignoring him, "Your heart is so big you couldn't hide it."  
"Well, don't." he said sharply, "Save your money."  
"I know you think you're so clever, making it look like some code with secret numbers and everything…" she began.  
"I really wish you wouldn't discuss my tatt—"  
"But I know you're hiding someone along with that heart of yours," she said, pointing her cigarette at him. "I know these things."  
"Good for you," he muttered, "Now, if you'll excuse me."

Finally dressed, Sherlock gathered his things and left the hotel room.

Her conversation had disturbed him. How had she noticed such a small, insignificant tattoo? The design of it had been straightforward. Sherlock remembered the day he had gotten it. It had been in the middle of his time in Serbia. He had gone straight to an old man he had heard about and asked simply for a specific set of numbers "to be placed here", he had said, pointing to the left side of his chest. The numbers were '1315121225' and Sherlock had even considered getting them done as Roman numerals. Before he knew it, he emerged with a slight stinging sensation on his skin, but with a small row of those exact numbers inked right above his heart.

Now, that small row of inked numbers felt like wounds cutting into his flesh. It took one night with a random woman to remind him why he had gotten those numbers etched into his flesh in the first place. The significance of those numbers soon drowned out his entire evening experimenting with 'the human touch'. The sensory pleasure now faded into a dull memory of the flesh, with none of the heat and excitement of before. What _was_ it about the human touch?

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing." he whispered, realising it properly.

Sherlock was halfway home when he decided to make a sharp detour. Whether or not there was going to be a fiancé or husband with her, he had to see her just once more. As he sat in the cab that took him to Molly's flat, he tore out a piece of paper from his notebook and wrote another series of numbers down.

"190805…1812…1503…11…" he murmured, penning the final digits.

The moment he reached his destination, he raced up the stairs to her flat. Despite the fact that it was about three a.m. and that there might be a man in her flat with her, Sherlock pounded at her door. The door swung open sooner than he had expected.

"I heard a cab, and then loud, rushed footsteps," said Molly, explaining why she had gotten to the door so soon.  
"Right…sorry," he said, a little flustered that she had suddenly appeared.  
"Is…something wrong?" she asked, "Did something happen?"  
"Um…no, _er_ , yes…actually, I need your help…" said the detective.  
"Well, come on in," she said, "Let's not both catch a chill…"

Molly was surprisingly calm at his sudden arrival. Then again, after years of having dealt with him at Bart's and having been a part of Mycroft's huge scheme to fake Sherlock's death, an unexpected visit at dawn really was nothing.

"So, what's this about?" she asked, stifling a yawn as she sank into her sofa.

Sherlock sat beside her and fumbled in his pocket for the piece of paper.

"Someone sent this to me…and just asked if I could guess what it was," he said, handing the paper to her.

Molly took it and studied the numbers.

"Who gave it to you?" she asked, smirking slightly.  
"Oh…just…some fan…a wannabe detective…type…fan…" he answered haphazardly, "It looks like a code, or puzzle. And I wanted to know if it was dangerous or—"  
"It's fine, Sherlock," she answered with a chuckle, folding it back and placing it on the coffee table.  
"It is?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.  
"Look," she said with a smile, sitting up and pointing to the numbers.  
"I'm looking," said Sherlock quietly.  
"It's your name, Sherlock - look," she explained, pointing at the numbers, "The numbers correspond with each letter in your name, according to its position in the alphabet."

Sherlock smiled and took the paper. It pleased him she figured it out so quickly. He took his pen out and flipped the piece of paper to its blank side.

"What are you smiling about?" asked Molly, studying his face.  
"Nothing," he said, as he began writing another series of numbers.  
"Oh god - you _knew_. You already knew…" she exclaimed, wanting very much to punch him in the face.  
"Well, now that _you_ know…." he said, holding the paper up for her to see, "You should know what this is."

Molly looked at the new set of numbers he had presented to her; '1315121225'. She studied it, then returned to studying him.

"That's my name," she said quietly.  
"Yes, it is," he said, folding the paper and returning it to his pocket.  
"What about it?" she asked, looking intently at him.

The detective got up from the sofa, refusing to study the environment for fear of picking up clues of anyone else living there. He also refused to look at her hands, to see if there were the shadows or marks of her having worn a ring, or rings, on a specific finger. He walked briskly to the door, completely aware of the fact that she was following right behind him. At her doorway, he turned to face her and smiled, reminding himself that she was someone else's and so could not kiss her.

"I just wanted you to know something," he said, at last.  
"Go on," she answered calmly.  
"When I was in Serbia, I got a little memento, something to help tide me through the work there," he began.  
"That was some time ago, Sherlock, why are you bringing Serbia up again?"  
"I got a tattoo, just a small one," he continued, "And it was of those numbers."  
"The one of your name?" Molly could not help but tease, "It _is_ rather like you to have your own name tattooed—"

He dropped his head to hide a smile, but it did not evade Molly. She smiled back, waiting for him to finish his story.

"It was _your_ name, Molly," he concluded quietly, "That was all I came to tell you."

With those words, he turned swiftly and was about to make for the stairs when Molly reached out to stop him. He felt her grip his arm and had not the heart to shake her off. Slowly, he turned back, still not daring to look at her properly so as to avoid making unpleasant deductions.

"Sherlock," she said, smiling gently at him.

The detective dared not respond, merely looking back at her.

"Why would you tell me that, and not stay?" she asked softly.

The heart that lay in his chest beat against the skin that bore her name. A slow smile began to appear on his face as he turned fully to stand in front of her.

"Is there room for me here?" he asked, unable to bring himself to look at her hands.

Molly reached for his hand and held it in hers. She brought it up to her lips and kissed his knuckles gently. A bolt of lightning seemed to go through him. Sherlock felt more awake and more alive than he had felt in a very long time. He laughed quietly and took a step nearer her. Molly smiled, placing a hand on the side of his face as he turned to kiss the inside of her palm.

"So, is there?" he asked, eyeing her intently.  
"Always, you fool," she answered, beaming at him, "but on one condition."

Sherlock saw the glint in her eyes and whilst it amused him, he did not understand it.

"Well, what is it?" he asked.  
"Are you going to let me see it?" she asked, her eyes sparkling at him.

Sherlock smiled and stepped into her flat. When the door was shut behind them, he wrapped his arms tightly around her and buried his face in her neck, kissing it ever so gently.

"I thought you'd never ask," he whispered in her ear.

Shaking her head, Molly chuckled softly as she took his hand and led him to where there would always be room for him. Always.

 **END**


End file.
